#peeled scabs off my own skin

[hssprimefan]

Sewing

As a little kid, Galaxy always found it soothing to pull on threads and undo stitches. Sometimes it was absentmindedly and automatically. Other times he was stressed, and he didn’t know why he did it, but knew exactly what he was doing. It was very systematic. Following the pattern of the fabric. The pretty unraveling was so much better to focus on than whatever was bothering him!

So basically he was destroying stuff all the time, and his parents and teachers would be like “why” and “how could you” and “didn’t i already tell you not to” and “what were you thinking”

He never had the answers to those questions. And he felt bad after the fact, but at this point he couldn’t even recognize an impulse, much less resist them.

So one day his mom finds him “fixing” the bedsheets. Groups of long threads on each side of a rip are tied in knots. Smaller holes near each other are threaded together with paper chips. He’s stapling the rest together.

It’s frustrating that he keeps doing this but his mom is really moved by how hard he’s trying to make it right. Should this kid be trusted with a needle? Probably not, but what he’s now doing is more dangerous. She teaches him to sew.

It’s so good for him. To make instead of destroy. To have something to do with his hands. Exactly what he needed.

And as a teen, he always remembers this! Both the actual skill his mom taught, and her patience with him. When he feels too strongly, he looks for something to do, to help, to create, to fix.

[credince--writes]

I'm thinking about the Better Off Dead series right now- and the first sexual encounter of Roach & Getter.

(Poly!Soap x Ghost x Roach x Reader)

Smut Below The Cut

Sorry I wrote this on my phone. Brainworms.

This is one of those 'man I have this idea but I don't want to write the oodles of plot that would lead up to the scenario

You're pawing at eachother, anger meeting in a clash of tongue and teeth that reminds you of home.

Stumbling back, back back and into Gary's room not thinking much of it

The pounding in your ears and the sounds of rustling clothes tunnel visions in on pulling Gary's shirt off and over his head- tossing it forgotten to the side

It's a bitter ritual of begging for forgiveness- his hard body going soft and placid beneath your fingertips as you push him back- direct his body as you see fit. Pushing down- the sudden loss of contact of skin only because his feet caught on a pair of boots tucked neatly at the end of the bed.

Back colliding down onto the soft surface below- a soft gasp leaving Gary's lips before you climb on top.

Your hands, you would always recall in these moments- are so much smaller than his. But yet wrapping your fingers around his wrist he allows you to pin his arms over his head.

He knows the second he breaks the illusion of power you're gone.

You're so, so angry.

The glob of spit left your mouth without even thinking. One hand leaving his wrists to breach your thumb against Gary's lips, press down against his tongue and hold his mouth- hot and wet open.

There's no words. Nothing is spoken but the glazed, hazy look in his eyes tells you enough that all the anger, red faced bile sinks its claws into your throat- clawing up and up until-

"You fucking whore-" you grit out, ignoring the hot feeling on your cheeks, the breathy way your condescending words leave your lips.

He just groans, rolling his hips up against your own.

Yanking down his trousers and briefs, roughly taking his cock in hand and giving him a singular dry tug down the length.

He bucks up, finally- noise- retribution leaving his lips as a groan leaks out into the air. A thick, choking smog.

It's not loving.

There is no care in the actions tugging your own bottoms off before fulling seating down on his cock.

You see the strain of his biceps as he holds himself back.

Back when he was a good boy- he'd be able to wrap his hands around your soft middle. Lifting you up and down on his cock when your eyes went cross.

Pawing at your tits, pulling you close to suck on them.

No, this wasn't the past.

You want to be mean.

Hateful.

You want to hurt like you've hurt.

You played with your clit when you ride him, ignoring the desperate, airy huffs of air leaving his lips.

Your orgasm hits, much to your dismay.

You hand leaves his wrists, but he dares not to move them from over his head.

Both hands planted on his chest, fingers digging into the collarbones beneath the flesh.

The ringing in your ears subsides before lifting your hand and slapping Gary across the face as hard as you can-

Grimacing as his cock twitches inside you

It fills you with a dreadful anger- the scab peeled off. Naked in front of him- all of the emotions come rushing back.

You lift your hand again.

A large, much larger hand wraps around your wrist. Engulfing your hand in a way that makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise-

Danger, predator.

The top of the food chain.

The apex.

You twist your neck, a small breath you hope is undetected unwillingly leaving your lips as Gary's cock pushes against the spongey ceiling of your insides as you lean back

Ignoring the twitch of your toes

Only to be greeted with the skull balaclava

You thought you were mean?

Oh, you're about to meet someone much, much meaner sweetheart.

[mybeingthere]

Junko Oki was born in Urawa City, Japan in 1963 and is currently based in Kamakura.

Oki embarked on her career as a fiber artist after inheriting a large quantity of thread from her late mother. She started out embroidering on clothes and bags, but before long moved to an abstract, textural style of freehand sewing on both sides of the fabric, rendering the stitching itself into works of art with sculptural dimensions. Often, her creations take on the appearance of living things or their by-products. They stretch, shrivel, burst, bleed, pucker, rot, spore, fester, scab, and molt. Possible interpretations of their forms include fruit peels, cobwebs, tree rings, mold, chrysalises, and wounds. Their colors are generally found in nature, ranging from deep reds and vibrant yellows to off-whites and subdued browns and greens. Oki works in cotton, silk, wool, linen, and hemp, while also sometimes incorporating materials and objects like paper, beeswax, pewter, bandages, and wooden frames. She will occasionally use an earlier work as the canvas for a new one, prompting reconsideration of what it means for a piece to truly be complete. She has referred to her own work as "my continually transforming skin."

© Junko Oki. Courtesy KOSAKU KANECHIKA. Photo: Keizo Kioku.

[doumadono]

Hello, dear writer!

I am so sorry to bother you but I have an Emergency Request.

For the past few months I am under a big stress. I just go trought some challenge in my life that isn't easy for me... Recently I noticed that I picked a not so great habit of... Ripping the dry skin off my lips... I do it no matter if it hurts, if my lips bleed or if I have visible scabs later on.

I do have history or harming myself so I think it's this mixed of both stress and the self hate.

Could you maybe do a fic with Nanmi, noticing his girlfriend doing this to herself and him trying to somehow stop her and comfort her.

I'd love some comfort.

Thank you, all the best wishes and lots of kisses for you! 🦈❤️

The inner peace - Nanami x Reader

A/N: I'm saddened to hear that you're going through such a difficult time. It's important to prioritize your well-being. Instead of tearing at your lips, consider finding healthier outlets for stress, like deep breathing exercises, journaling, or even talking to someone you trust. Taking small steps can make a big difference

JUJUTSU KAISEN EMERGENCY REQS

Amidst the quiet hum of their shared apartment, Nanami could feel a subtle shift in the air. The once vibrant atmosphere had given way to a somber undercurrent, and it didn't escape his keen perception. The rhythmic sound of pages turning was interrupted by a soft, almost imperceptible sound — his girlfriend's lips parting in a sigh.

Nanami lowered his book, fixing his gaze on the woman sitting across from him. Your eyes, usually brimming with vitality, now held a shadow that hadn't been there before. He observed the subtle telltale signs — a nervous twitch of your fingers, a hesitant glance, and the undeniable evidence on your lips.

You sat there, absently peeling away at the dry skin, as if trying to shed a layer of the stress that had settled upon your shoulders.

Nanami closed his book and placed it on the table, a quiet acknowledgment of the moment that demanded his attention. "Hey," he spoke softly, choosing his words with care. "Mind if I join you for a moment?"

Her gaze met yours, a mixture of surprise and vulnerability. You nodded, and Nanami shifted in his seat, moving closer to you. "Everything okay?" he inquired, though he already sensed the answer.

You hesitated, as if debating whether to share the burden you carried.

Nanami waited patiently.

Finally, you spoke, the words tumbling out like fragile confessions. "I don't know, Nanami. I've been stressed, and I picked up this habit. It's like... I can't stop, even if it hurts."

He regarded you with a thoughtful expression. "It's okay. We all have our ways of coping. But this," he gestured towards your lips, "isn't a solution. Let me help."

Nanami reached out, gently taking your hand to still the anxious fingers that continued their relentless assault. His touch was warm, a soothing balm to the invisible wounds you carried. As he delicately intertwined your fingers, he spoke with a measured calmness. "You don't have to face everything alone. I'm here for you, remember? Whenever you feel low, you can come to me and pour your sadness out."

You met his gaze, the vulnerability in your eyes mirrored in his own. For a moment, you simply sat there, connected by the unspoken promise of support. You hesitated for a moment, uncertainty lingering in the air like an unspoken truth. "It's just stress, I guess," you admitted, your voice a fragile whisper. "And I don't want to be a burden to you."

"You don't deserve to hurt yourself," Nanami remarked, his words carrying a quiet determination. "Let me help you carry the burden. You're not alone in this."

"But you have a lot of your own stuff to deal with..." You argued.

"Let me help you," he demanded, reaching for a small container on the nightstand. The lid unscrewed with a soft click, revealing a soothing lip balm. Nanami dipped his fingers into the balm, the delicate fragrance filling the air as he applied it gently to your lips. The act was tender, a symbol of care and healing, each stroke a promise to mend what had been broken. "This might help," he said, his touch lingering as he met your gaze with a sincerity.

"You didn't get it, Kento!" Your voice trembled with a mixture of frustration and self-doubt. "I didn't want to be a bother. I didn't want you to worry about me. I thought I should be able to handle this on my own."

"You weren't a bother," he insisted, his voice calm but resolute. "Your well-being mattered to me. I want to be there for you, through the good and the bad."

You shook your head, the weight of your internal struggles evident in the lines that etched across your forehead. "But I thought I should be strong enough to handle this alone, just like you are..."

Nanami sighed, a soft exhale that carried the weight of understanding. "Strength isn't about facing everything alone. It's about recognizing when you need support and having the courage to seek it."

A conflicted expression played on your features as you wrestled with your own convictions. "I just…"

Nanami reached for your hands, a gentle squeeze emphasizing his sincerity. "You are more than enough. But that doesn't mean you have to face everything alone. We all need someone to lean on, and I want to be that someone for you."

Tears welled in your eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the vulnerability you had tried so hard to conceal. "I just didn't want you to see me as weak."

Nanami's thumb brushed away a tear that escaped, his touch gentle but firm. "Vulnerability doesn't equate to weakness. It takes strength to open up, to let someone in."

You sighed, a mixture of defeat and acceptance lingering in the air. "I'm sorry."

Nanami's expression softened, his gaze unwavering. "You will never be a burden, and you don't disappoint me. I care about you. Please, don't apologize. But the next time you feel low, just come and talk to me. I am not a mind reader after all," he joked lightly.

In the quiet moments that followed, the weight of the conversation lingered, and without uttering another word, you found solace in the warmth of Nanami's presence. "Thank you," you whispered, a simple phrase carrying the weight of genuine appreciation. "For always being so caring, for being there when I needed it the most."

[earlgrey-and-lavender]

Do you ever think about the logistics of Neil’s scars after Baltimore?

Like do you think about how some of those cuts needed stitches? How that skin turned purple and red? How it knotted and turned so smooth in places? How Neil ran his fingers gently against the transition between old and new skin? If he rubs at them when he’s worried? How Andrew runs his hands over that skin?

How a WEEK after getting those injuries they started to scab over? And how nosy “I’m going to pull back your bandages” Andrew probably picked them off Neil’s skin so the scars healed weird?

How the burn specifically on Neil’s face would have flaked and peeled? Do you think Andrew bought him lotion for his skin because it cracked and bled during the healing process?

Idk. I just. Them. Also thinking about Neil as my own (surgical) scars heal.

[ahli-stuff]

Toska

Pairing: Fyodor Dostoevsky x Dazai Osamu

Content warnings: non-sexual choking, non-sexual nudity, non-consensual touching, references to suicide and sh, implied unrequited relationship, unhealthy relationships

Excerpt: “Fyodor has to ground his head against the carpet to cauterize his heartache.”

Fyodor is, upon close observation, a quite ugly man.

He is all misshapen joints, scabbed fingers, and sunken eyes. His eyelids strain to even blink, the skin stretched thin as paper.

Fyodor Dostoevsky is only pretty from certain angles, where light hits his jawline but shadows the rest of his body, and he is made briefly, into a painting. The picture of a corpse that hasn’t been told to decay. Dazai marks his canvas with cigarette butts.

“I love you,” Fyodor says on one such afternoon.

Dazai says, “I know,” as he retches into his one-room, no-door bathroom. This way, Fyodor immediately knows if he will have to drag Dazai out of the tub whenever he visits.

“I love you,” he presses, experimentally bold, the sharp edge of his mind heat-dulled. His tongue is heavy and stupid. “And if you knew how to…” Would you choose me?

Laughing through gagging, or gagging through laughing, Dazai says, “what?” but the lilt follows the Japanese “no.”

Fyodor lies back down, sweating in a pile of blankets, cold. “Then who else?” He grits through perfectly closed teeth.

“Nobody,” and even that word is in the cadence of another’s name as Dazai spits another lie into the sink. “If I could, it might be you.”

Fyodor back sticks to the sheets. He is downing in cold liquid as he says lightly, “don’t play this game with me, Osamu.”

“There’s no games! Now, now, don’t be so angry,” he’s right, Fyodor is so angry his corpse might rot awake, “you wouldn’t want my love anyways—“

Dazai leans into to kiss him, unrinsed mouth and all “—because then, I wouldn’t be here.”

Fyodor pushes his face away, cringing. The unspoken question that succeeds that statement was already answered the moment they met. Fyodor knows this. Hurt still pulses out of his fingertips, spreads up his cigarette-marked arms and urges him to move. His parietal lobe is numb. The weekend is at least five-eighths ruined; Fyodor will likely find a back alley junkie closet to mope for the next week.

He shoves the blankets off, moves to get away until Dazai circles around him like a traitorous snake. “Fyo—Fed…Fedya,” he can’t even come up with his own nicknames, “stay, I have enough booze to last us two days.”

Dazai says it clumsily, medicated with his arms loose and caging around Fyodor’s scrapyard body—Fyodor would pull them off now—useless crab arms. Peel the bandages off and eat them.

“Let go.” He pushes, and then when that doesn’t work, he pulls. Fyodor doesn’t have the mind to be dangerous at this moment, only the heart to be. He wants to find a safe place to rot.

(There are no safe places for him. Fyodor made sure of that, hundreds of nights and bodies ago.)

“No,” Dazai squeezes, and Fyodor’s body is even colder. “What did I say? What did I do?”

He does not want to be near Dazai right now, with all of his cat-like confusion and innuendos and riddles, despite it Fyodor habitually being able to return that sort of play. This afternoon, his brain is a fog and his heart has a traitorous homesickness—disaster looms.

“I want to go home.” He says flatly.

“What home?” Dazai asks. Fyodor should bite Dazai’s tongue out.

“I’ll bite your tongue out if you kiss me with vomit still in your mouth.” It’s a half truth, half lie. He would bite Dazai’s tongue out; truth. He wouldn’t kiss Dazai if he tasted like vomit; lie.

Fyodor wants Dazai in wholes disguised as halves, and Dazai wants Fyodor in halves that are halves. Throughout their time in each other’s sphere, Dazai had never lead him to believe anything else.

Didn’t he, though? Traitorous inner voice. Fyodor’s hands ache; from his palms to his fingers, he bleeds hurt.

Where would Fyodor go from here? No really, where(who) does Fyodor even have? In his current rotation, he has an apartment complex in Bangladesh, a prison cot in Russia, his working office at [redacted], Dazai’s old shipping container here, in Japan—Fyodor wants to choke the leech of interest that immediately latches onto the thought of anything “Dazai’s”—What about Nikolai? Sigma? …Bram? ……Fukuchi?

With each name that flits by his heat-addled mind Fyodor only further curdles. He curls into his own body protectively, still in Dazai’s arms, and he can’t even pretend that he isn’t cold.

No where to go but through, then.

Fyodor finds where lines map Dazai’s wrist and squeezes. Dazai hisses, flinching backward as Fyodor twists. He puts both hands Dazai’s ribs, as if he can further cave them inwards, pushing him flat on the bed.

Fyodor is straddling on him, stark naked and flaccid, pallid and skintight, ugly the way a horror movie is under good lighting with his fingers around his victim’s throat. Dazai in beneath him, panting, thin and soft—godless curls spread out like dozens of cut brown wings. Skin gold lined enough to make a devil weep.

Dazai calls him “pretty,” in between his garbled choking and Fyodor almost wants to thumb his eyes for lying to him again. He doesn’t.

Fyodor enjoys choking Dazai less only because he knows Dazai will always enjoy it more. This time, he feels nothing at all.

Dazai’s arms frantically scrabble against grip, survival instinct kicking into overdrive as his nails rake against Fyodor’s wrists. Fyodor watches, as he has done dozens of times, the moment that light reappears within Dazai’s hole-dark voids seconds before he goes unconscious.

Dazai paws at him, whimpering quietly as his eyelids flicker dreamily. He is the picture of a perfect victim; an orphic martyr for himself. Petulantly, Fyodor releases him.

Sputtering, Dazai curls, staining the bed with spittle. He heaves as if to gag again, but swallows hard, turning to Fyodor unhappily, “what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You held on longer last time.”

Fyodor moves to snag a blanket off the bed, cover his own body, and grasp around the floor for his clothes.

“Why are you angry at me?” Dazai repeats from the bed, new bruise marks adorning his neck with an objective kind of beauty. Dazai, unable to ever live and let lie when the situation ever actually calls him to, says, “I like you, isn’t that enough?”

Fyodor cannot help the way he shivers, made stupid by the heat and the cold, the yesses and nos, and the man who may be the only one who will vaguely remember him if he fails. When he succeeds. He won’t fail.

Fyodor has to ground his head against the carpet to cauterize his heartache. He needs to trade out this body soon.

“I’m leaving. Do whatever you please with my phone.”

He wants to pray. To lick his wounds in dignity. Dazai can be tortured another day, when Fyodor does not feel like he might give up everything for the proximity of another body.

He tugs his shirt on, staggering to his feet but Dazai, Dazai will not let him go, Dazai yanks his arm with enough force to dislocate and they fall in a heap. Dazai will push him away when Fyodor wants him and pull him close when all Fyodor wants is absolution; he keeps—digging up Fyodor’s corpse to ogle, prodding at the cockroaches in his mouth and peeling his skin like dried dates—Dazai will not let Fyodor go, and now, ever since the day that Dazai’s criminal profile burrowed a home in his skull, Fyodor’s isolation has become unbearable.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He rasps.

“You wanted it,” Dazai says neutrally. “You don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself. Not after everything you’ve done.”

“I never wanted you.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Laughing as if he isn’t a punishment, his fingers rake Fyodor’s hair taking clumps of strands with it; Yama to his Christ.

“Do you,” he licks his lips. Dazai’s gravity makes him a fool. “Do you really think that I’m—”

He pities the corpse in Dazai’s grasp, shaking and whispering. It is surely not Fyodor.

[corvuserpens]

The Oath - A "Black Sails" oneshot fic

Here it is, the angst fest of Billy reacting to Gates' death! I've had the full thing sitting in my drafts for days, itching to edit it and post it, but life kept getting in the way. Well, yesterday I overworked on my Master's dissertation, so today I made time. This is set on the day Billy returns to Nassau, after talking to Silver and recounting what happened to him to the rest of the Walrus crew. I hope you enjoy the read and weep as much as I did lmao 🥂 Obviously, trigger warning for death mentions and dealing with grief.

Billy bones entered the wash tent alone. There was a porcelain basin with clean water there, and some soap for anyone to use. The towels were desperately needing a wash, however. No matter. He could sit it out and air dry enough before putting his rags back on and go find new clothes. There was also a cracked mirror on the corner that he paid no attention to. Slowly, biting back the complaints each movement gave him after weeks locked in that leather vest, he removed his shirt and trousers and tossed them onto the sand. He picked up the jar by the basin, plunged it into a bucket bucket full of water and turned it over his head, hissing as it offered some respite to his burned skin. It didn't last very long; the Bahamas heat soon warmed the liquid to match his own body temperature, but fuck if it didn't feel good. Next, he picked up the bar of soap, also dipped it into the bucket and started washing the sand, sweat salt and dirt from his skin--

His eyes caught sight of his reflection, freezing him. With hesitant steps, he came closer and tilted it downwards to really take himself in. His face was an angry red color, with bits of skin peeling off, and his lips cracked and scabbed over. His ankles and feet were also burned, and every inch of him was covered in bruises of varying shades, especially around the ribs. There were dark purple rings beneath his eyes, which still had the same color and shape, but his days in captivity had put something there that hadn't been present before. A little glint of something feral. Something scared. Something... broken.

He could barely recognize his own image.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Billy forced himself to look away and take a seat on the wooden bench in front of the basin. As he rubbed off every bit of dirt until he could see the color of his own skin again, his mind began to wonder.

Inevitably, it turned to Gates.

Who was dead.

God, he still couldn't believe it. How could he be dead? What could possibly have happened that could lead to such an outcome? It was too hard to accept he could have been randomly killed in battle. Or had an accident. Or something as ridiculous as suffering a heart attack. Gates wasn't invincible, no one was, but Billy had always thought the man was too lucky or too experienced to die. He had never been sick a day in his life, not in all the years since Billy had joined.

But of course, he could have died from any one of those things. Hell, he could have died from a number of any other things, and all of them would have been better than the truth... which was that no one knew exactly how he had died.

Even Silver wasn't sure of what had happen. All anyone on the crew was certain of was that Mr. Gates followed captain Flint into the great cabin, and that was the last time they saw him alive. Flint's account was that Gates' heart had given out and that was it. Dufresne and some of the others were sure Flint had murdered him when he threatened mutiny after arriving to where the Urca de Lima was supposed to be and finding nothing. Regardless, no one was in that cabin to say what went down, except the two of them. Only Flint could tell, but Billy didn't trust a single word that came out of his mouth. And even where Billy himself was concerned, no matter what he had told the others, he also wasn't sure if Flint had lost his grip on his hand during the storm or simply let him go when he perceive him as a threat, as well. What was true and what wasn't, he didn't know.

And perhaps... it didn't really matter. It didn't matter how Gates had died. It mattered that he was dead.

Billy's hand stopped on his shoulder, only now noticing the suffocating tightness in his lungs. It had been there since he was told, slowly, steadily building up. While he had been talking to Silver, chained like an animal to a post, and then telling his brothers what he had gone through with the British navy, he had managed to bury it in his chest and ignore it, surprisingly easy. Now that he was alone with his thoughts, each passing minute it got harder and harder to do so. He scrubbed away at one arm, then the other, then a leg, a foot, all the while trying desperately to swallow the raw emotion growing inside him. It squeezed his throat, like it was trying to claw its way out. His stomach began to hurt something awful as he poured water down his head once more, washing away the soap and the filth off of himself.

The worst part though, was how heavy his eyes felt. The second he was aware of it, his chest constricted until he could barely breathe. He tried to forcefully suck in some air through his nose, only to find it stuffed. His head was swimming, from the building pressure around his eyes and from the memory of when he was finally freed from the navy's impressment.

Billy had been a small, weak thing then, but when Gates had found him, he had personally fed him, given him clothes to put on his back, taught him how to shoot and to use the cutlass. He had taken that fragile boy under his wing and taught him to be strong, to stand up for himself, to kill. And then, little Billy grew up into a man beloved by his friends, his brothers, this odd family that had found him on the brink of death and thought him worthy enough to recruit.

Gates had seen something in him, and to this day, he still didn't know what it was, but everything he had become, everything he had accomplished, he owed it to that man. Billy had respected him, looked up to him... yes, even loved him. He thought about how often Gates would call him "son" in recent years, and he couldn't fight back anymore.

The soap bar slipped from his trembling grasp. His hands went around his shoulders and buried the broken nails into his mistreated flesh, and he let himself curl up into a ball as his eyes shut tight and his features twisted painfully. Hot tears flowed freely down his burnt cheeks and dripped from his chin, as he took one shaky breath after the other.

Gates was dead. Gates was dead, and he died thinking Billy had preceded him. He never would know that this boy he had raised into a respected and revered pirate in his own right was still alive. Billy would never get to have the reunion he had prayed for, the one thing that had kept him sane all throughout the torture. It had been the lifeline he had grasped onto while violence was inflicted upon him. He never would get to thank Gates for everything he had done for him. Never would get to rise to be quartermaster in full, instead of serving as a replacement, then turn around and see the proud smile on his face. All those hopes, those dreams, had died with him.

For the first time since he had been pressed into the navy, Billy Bones sobbed. He rocked himself back and forth, his soul shattering into a thousand pieces. Someway somehow, he was expected to get up, put his clothes back on, and march out there like nothing had happened, but in that moment, he didn't have it in him. The sorrow that gripped him couldn't be forced to back down, and honestly? He didn't want to. So he wept, and wept, and wept, for what seemed like hours. Every time he tried to wipe away the tears and finally breathe, another wave would come and force him under. He held his pounding head in a hand and coughed, choked and moaned, but the tide of grief would not subside.

What was he to do, now...? Without Gates to hold everything together and make Flint listen to reason, what hope was there for him and the others? They would look up to him as Gates' chosen successor to look out for their well-being and their interests, but he didn't have any sway with Flint. Gates was the only one he listened to, and he was gone. What was he supposed to do, now...?

At last, his body stopped shivering and calmed. His breathing evened, allowing him enough respite to at least straighten up and let his hands fall on his lap. A couple of weaker sobs still managed to come out, but they too faded away after he cleared his throat and spat out the sticky saliva mixed with snot.

The crew would look to him to guide them, now. He had to get up and fight because whatever Flint was - liar, murderer, tyrant - on one very critical point he was right: civilization was coming to exterminate them. It would come and take every single person he knew and loved, and swallow them whole. Gates had only been the first casualty in the war that was now inevitable. Billy still didn't know how he would get Flint to listen to him, but that was a matter for another day. Despite how resentful he felt toward him, Flint was the only man in this island full of maniacs who was aware of the real threat looming on the horizon, which meant he was the only man with a way to ensure their survival through what was coming.

And yet, his post was at risk. With dissent and distrust rampant in the crew, it was only a matter of time before another attempt at mutiny was made. That is, if he wasn't voted out, first. That was something Billy could fix. He had learned from the best. Gates was not around to protect them anymore, but he had taught his protegée well. He owed it to Gates' memory to continue his work and make sure he saved as many as he could from the empire and from Flint. That was how he would honor him and the bond they had shared. That was the pillar he would lean on as he mourned his loss.

Billy Bones washed the tears from his eyes with a handful of water, stoop up to his feet and put his rags back on, effectively pulling himself together. Hal Gates was dead, but his legacy would live on through the boy he had seen some sort of potential in, even if he himself could not quite discern it yet. For as long as he drew breath, he would honor and continue that legacy.

That was his solemn oath, which he trusted to guide his steps, now and for the rest of his life. He only prayed it would lead them all to some place better, where their skies were always clear and they were all alive and free; then Billy could lay down on the beach one last time and be at peace, knowing he had kept his word, and that wherever Gates was, he could look down on him and smile with pride.

[passivenovember]

Life is supposed to be an epic. A scroll that never stops rolling with a script that never takes a breath, but maybe Steve isn’t well versed in spotting the blank when it appears. 

So, it’s best to mark his life in breaths. 

The first time Tommy made him laugh so hard that strawberry milk shot out his nose and coated the lunch room table in foamy, blossoming pink friendship. Maybe that was chapter one. The first breath that made him whole. He had his second half, finally. For the first time in his life he had a friend.

The next breath he took was when his parents filed for divorce. It was a little more like trying to catch air in his lungs before a wave crashed overhead. 

Steve’s father packed a suitcase and caught the train to Chicago because Steve’s mother wanted to keep the house. 

He’d never heard them scream at each other like that.

In a panic, howling as their blue Mercedes pulled out of the driveway for the last time, she smashed her hand through the kitchen window.

Said it was because she was aiming to catch her wedding ring as it bounced along the counter tops, but.

Steve doesn’t remember that part.

He remembers other things.

Picking shards from her knuckles, breathing deep through his nose while his mother mimicked and shook so hard Steve felt like his lungs were going to knock loose from the force of it.

She pulled him close when the blood was gone. “You’re my protector, Steven,” She said. 

“Like a shining Knight,” Steve said, even though there was nothing left to fight for. Where does the knight go when the kingdom sleeps.

Nancy gave him something to obsess over. 

Her love was a chapter that brought peace. Nancy was like like napping in a filed with the sun on his face, belly full of cheese sandwiches and tart lemonade. Steve’s lungs carried air to every part of his body, making his limbs feel taught and weightless. 

He got comfortable. Bored, maybe. Fell asleep.

And when he woke up, startled because Nancy had disappeared into the treeline and took all the warmth of summer with her when Steve wasn’t looking, his skin was red and sensitive. Burnt.

Steve had thought he was being helpful but it took forever for things to peel off and scab over. To become new, again.

After a while he learned to breathe on his own. He’s gotta live. And everything’s a blur, really. It’s gooey tentacle monsters and sleepless nights and the feeling of claws scraping down his throat when he jerks awake.

Startled.

Sucking enough air into his lungs to fill a weather balloon. To raise the titanic. To bring back the dead.

And it’s never enough.

But then he meets Billy, who’s name means Protector.

Billy, who’s probably the last chapter Steve will be able to discern the start of because he’s it, for Steve. He’s the binding glue that holds Steve’s saga together. He’s the protagonist and the tragic hero and the breath that escapes Steve’s lungs when he falls, bloodied, to a tiled floor in nowhere, Indiana. 

The end of a story.

Steve spent every moment they were together holding his breath.

Billy spooks easily. He lashes out and then he cries about lashing out and he disappears, or he tries to, but Steve chases him while his chest contracts around big, heavy feelings.

Steve sits by Billy’s hospital bed and holds his breath. 

Hopes Billy makes it out alive.

When Billy does, Steve breathes. Billy wakes up covered in bandages, rasping as he reaches for Steve over miles of scratchy hospital cotton, and Steve lets go.

Of his fears.

Of a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

--

“What do you think happens to us when we die?”

Steve flicks his sneakers over the edge of the hospital bed as some poor nurse’s cart rattles down the hall.  He’s not supposed to be up here, but Billy gets cold.

He talks more, these days.

Only to Steve.

Only to Max.

“I think we go to Heaven,” Steve answers. His hand is a weight on Billy’s thigh, a napping amphibian soaking all the warmth he keeps on offer. 

Billy doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he says, “I don’t believe in Heaven,” so softly Steve almost can’t make it out in time. Billy leans back on the hospital bed, breathing harshly through his nose. “When I died--”

“That didn’t happen. I wouldn’t let it.”

“--I saw a river,” Billy tells him, anyway. 

Steve remembers from his Nancy days that that’s a motif in Greek Mythology. Everyone passes down a river to get through the underworld. And there’s a three-headed dog, or something, guarding the entrance. 

But Billy isn’t the kind of guy who’d believe in something like that. 

“Orpheus and Eurydice are my favorite love story,” Steve says. Doesn’t mention that it was all that was playing in his head this summer, when everyone thought Billy had passed on.

When Billy blinks at him, it’s because he understands.

He’s smart. Smarter than Nancy, because he knows when to hold on with both hands. Smarter than Steve, because everyone is.

Billy sits up and leans closer. So close Steve can see green summer leaves swirling in his endless waves of blue. “Do you want to be buried, here?” Billy asks.

Steve swallows. “In Hawkins?”

“Yeah,” Billy says. Like he’s afraid of the answer. Like it matters to him.

And Steve’s smart enough not to fuck this up. “I want Hawkins to eat shit.”

“Okay,” Billy says easily. “What do you want them to do with your body?”

Once, a few years ago, Steve’s parents almost drove into a tree because the road was slick. The car was totaled and the responding officer said it was a miracle they made it out alive.

From that moment on, they never let Steve forget about it. The miracle. How lucky they were. They got a will drafted and sat Steve down on his fifteenth birthday to walk him through the specifics.

Cremation, no burial, no funeral.

Steve doesn’t like to think about death. 

Billy frowns. He knocks Steve’s hand from his knee. “I want to be dumped in the ocean,” He says, like he’s expecting Steve to argue.

“From your casket?” Steve teases. 

Billy doesn’t laugh.

It’s awkward. It’s uncomfortable and thinking about Billy, lying there like that--

“Let’s talk about something else,” Steve tries.

“No.”

“Why is it so important to you?”

“What, am I bumming you out, Harrington?” Billy snaps, eyes like the center of a flame. “I almost died this summer. Shit kinda fucks your priorities around a little.”

His voice shakes just enough that Steve can see through it to the root, stretching far below them.

Billy’s afraid.

He’s right on the brink of shaking apart and Steve’s not going to let that happen. Not now, not ever again.

So he crowds in Billy’s face. Says, “Yeah? Well my priorities are getting you out of this fucking hospital so we can dip our bodies, warm and alive, into the ocean.”

Billy’s chin wobbles. Like it frightens him and makes him happy in the same breath. Like he just can’t believe it. “What about when we die--”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Steve determines. He runs all ten fingers through Billy’s hair, careful not to let it hurt. “Right now I just want to live with you. I want a long, happy, healthy life with you, Billy. Okay?”

When Billy doesn’t respond, Steve kisses him. Long and slow on the mouth and then chaste and quick on his cheeks. Pecking at Billy’s face like a lovesick bird until he finally cracks a smile.

When Billy’s nurse appears in the doorway, she tells Steve to get his sneakers off the bed if he wants to keep his feet.

And it makes Billy laugh.

Steve climbs down and doesn’t say that he has thought about what will happen when he breathes in for the last time. Not to his soul, but to his bones.

He wants to be with Billy, in that great wide somewhere.

He just wants that. Love, napping with it in a summer warm field.

[irotinmyroom]

creepypasta oc art + backstory dumpp

i havent really posted anything of my own for a while now soo.. yeah! ive had his story put together for a while now, but im finally putting it out there!! (ive delayed it for the longest time)

so his story / details about him are just gonna be put together in categories since i havent really fully made a fleshed out backstory for him yet, its just really a bunch of ideas i wanna put together once i get back to writing again

ok now heres my actual oc, sorry for the yap session 😭

Name “Elias Finn Collins” 

Birthdate “August 27, 2006” 

Appearance “Right eye blind because of manically scraping the skin off with his nails of that side of the face in a panicked state, scar of scraped off skin still there” + “Peeling and loose skin around the scar due to the depth and long-lasting effects of the injury” + “Since the wound was originally caused by fingers scraping and digging into the skin, all different layers of skin are somewhat exposed, varying from a lot of reds and salmons” + “Also makes the depth of the scar vary“ + “Has a habit of picking the healed area, which is mostly scabbed over due to so much picking, so it is usually bleeding.” + “Ragged scarring around the scar due to what caused it” + “Ragged scarring around the neck as well due to scraping with his nails under the belief that something was under his skin” + “Picks and scratches at his neck too, causing it to always be raw and/or scabbed over” + “Slight stubble on chin” + “Left eye is green, right eye is a greyish-white (Blind)” + “Wears a leather, black and worn out motorcycle jacket with brown fur on the hood” + “White t-shirt underneath” “Worn out denim jeans” + “Dark blue/Black converse with fur on the inside” + “Hair is dark brown fading to a dirty blonde” + “ 

Personality “Introverted” + “Takes a while to warm up to anyone” + “Feels paranoid most of the time” + “Anti-Social” + “A bit childish in the way he acts sometimes” + “If he gets upset or mad, he’ll usually resort to physical violence, whether that be aimed towards someone or just throwing things around”

Habits “Picking his skin/unhealed scabs” + “Fidgeting with his fingers and anything else he has in his hands when anxious” + “Bouncing of his leg whenever nervous or just impatient” + “Talks to himself sometimes” 

Backstory (Unfinalized, just a bunch of ideas) “He had an average life up until he was around 11” + “Though, he was constantly being picked on by other kids due to his awkward nature, parents being split apart and him living with his father, etc.” + “His older brother, who is somewhere around 4 years older than him, wasn’t around his father’s place much though. His brother was always out with friends, breaking into cars and stealing them, coming home drunk, etc. The little time that Elias did spend with his brother was pleasant, through a shared interest of gaming, etc. His older brother was pretty caring for Elias though” + “His father and him were close up until when Elias hit about 10 years old, as Elias became more distant and started lacking interest in things he used to enjoy.” + “Elias wasn’t really into what his father wanted him to do though, leading to his father becoming somewhat bitter towards him. This was due to the 'lack of masculinity’ that Elias had, and because as Elias grew older, he reminded his father more and more like his mother” + “Him and his mother had a very good relationship up until when his mother and father split. She would always be there for him, and always told him that nothing he did could stop her from loving him. To say the least, she was caring towards him and was definitely more open than his father”

“Him and his brother had to stay with their dad due to financial troubles on their mom’s side. Their father split away from their mom due to constant arguing” + “After they split, (they were never married, only dating since they both had commitment issues) their mom couldn’t find a job and couldn’t keep providing for herself, leading to her overdosing on pills and dying. This took a huge toll on Elias, who was only 10 at the time. Not so much his brother, since his brother was more of his father's child” + “Elias had been the one to pick up the phone, hearing from a policeman about his mother's overdose” + “He immediately broke down into tears, disappearing into his room for a few weeks, only coming out late at night to get food and water” + “Eventually, after he finally came back out of his room and saw his father and brother, they could immediately tell a difference. He was no longer interested in anything he used to enjoy, seeming more paranoid and anxious. He barely talked at all anymore, a small contrast from before but still there nonetheless.” + “His life went on like this for a while, as he kept more to himself rather than going out and talking to people” + “Behind closed doors, he started seeing things. He had started seeing figures out of the corner of his eyes, varying in shapes and sizes, but mainly, a slim tall man. He never got a good glimpse at it, though” + “Eventually, around 14 years old, the seeing things, hallucinations and delusions got worse for him. He went a bit manic, thinking worms were under his skin, causing him to hastily grab at and scrape off the skin surrounding his right eye in an attempt to ‘get them out’.” + “His brother found him in his room, sprawled out on the floor and passed out with scraps of skin and a puddle of blood beside him. This freaked his brother out, immediately calling for his father as he looked at Elias’ unmoving and bloody face on the ground” + “They took him to the hospital, diagnosing him with Schizophrenia and being unable to treat his wound. This would leave a scar for life on Elias, including partial blindness in his right eye” + “The doctors at the hospital talked to his father and brother about sending him to a mental hospital for his safety, so that’s what they did” + “He fought back and expressed how much he didn’t want to go, and that ‘they’re out to get him’, yet his father and brother still just sat there and watched as the truck Elias got shoved in took off, taking him to the mental hospital” + “His life was an endless loop for around two years, until one day, he went manic again” + “Under belief that there were ‘spiders crawling down his throat’, he once again hastily scraped at his neck, causing a ragged bleeding wound around his throat. A few security officers rushed into the room as he was in this state. In delusional haste, he quickly and angrily dug his nails into one of the officer's faces, cutting through the skin. At the unintended distraction, he quickly sped out of his room, heading towards the nearest exit with blurry vision” + “He was quickly reported as missing, a police search being sent out but them being unable to find him.” + “After he got out, he ran and ran until he was far enough away. He ran into a nearby forest, it being nighttime by the time he got there.” + “He had to survive there for another year, living off of animals to eat for survival. Until he turned 17” + “He didn’t know he had turned 17, as he had already lost track of time. He had still been seeing things for the past two years he was in the forest, having more small manic episodes where he would pick, scratch and bite at his skin. But he had still been seeing figures. Specifically, the tall one. One day, eventually, the tall figure approached him, and despite obvious resistance, the tall figure took him back to his broken-down manor in the woods.” 

anndd heres my art of him

most recent art of him vVv

still very unfinalized but i really wanted to share him cause i love him <3

[carmenvonx]

tw vent

why am i so pathetic? why am i like this? why cant i just be normal? why do i need everyone to baby me or else ill have a fucking mental breakdown. my mother cant just handle everything. god im such a crybaby. im always repeating the same mistakes. i swear it'll be different everytime, but it never is. everything feels so hard to do, but im such a lazy ass. why cant i just have the motivation to do this? im always making excuses for myself, but i never learn. how do i do this if i just wanna die sometimes? "sorry mom i didnt do my homework, it didnt seem like that big of a deal when im thinking about how miserable and meaningless my life is!" i havent spoken to anybody other than my mother in a week, im such a god damn loser. why cant i just have friends? why cant people like me? i always blame it on me being fat but what if im just a weirdo. im always the girl in the back of the class staring off into the distance, disassociating. im always the girl anxiously and obsessively picking the skin of my fingers off until my hands are bloody, and blood is crusted into my nails. im the girl biting and peeling my lips until it stings and i can taste the coppery blood seep into my mouth and drip down my face. im the girl who has her hand shoved in her birdsnest mess of a hair, picking any scab i feel on my scalp until its bloody. nobody sees that girl and thinks "wow she seems like a totally sane chill person to talk to!" i dont know whats wrong with me, and everything just feels useless. im literally on antidepressants. why cant i just function. why cant i not think these things. why cant i be NORMAL. why cant i sleep at night without staying awake thinking about how horrible i am. im not okay and everyone thinks its fine because "i have potential". FUCK potential. why the fuck would i care about potential if the only thing on my mind is rotting? my life is going down in flames. i dont know how to recover. i cant think of the last time i felt okay. that i didnt think these things. i must have been like 9. why cant i just be a normal girl. why do i have to have panic attacks so severe i think im dying and am gasping for air to breathe. why do i hurt myself obsessively until im bleeding and my eyes sting with tears. why does it give me a satisfaction when i see my fingers grow bloody? what the fuck. why do i never shower or brush my teeth like im a gross fucking goblin. why do i never do my work, despite making promises i will. why does everything feel like a chore to me. how am i supposed to live this life? how am i supposed to succeed and survive? how am i meant to get a job like this? find someone that will love me, and hold me, and tell me its okay over and over despite it not working. i just want to throw my life down a well and never look back. not in a suicide way, id never take my own life despite me suffering with sucidal ideation. i just... wish i could sink into the ground and rest forever. let it take me under. feel relaxed for once, without feeling like everything is piling on. how did i let myself get this bad? how do i escape? why do i feel like my life is ending one moment, then fine the next? what the fuck is wrong with me? why cant i just get a diagnosis? anything? ANYTHING to make me understand why i act this way. why i write this shitty vent that nobody cares about? im starting to feel like even my own mother hates me. i just want to isolate myself from everything and everyone and see who cares.

[wrldeater]

from my notes app of poetry

every sentence is halted and peppered by some yearning from atonement

“and i know better but,

i oftentimes look at my reflection and find myself unsightly and unbecoming

peeling or cracking off at the seams, crumbling beneath the weight of my own hand

TAUROMACHY

i know how deep to dig

how hard to scratch bite

i know which teeth to pull

the lay of the land

i know how the blisters/scabs/skin reconstructs itself before your eyes

science is a madmans magic

i know how the stomach churns in

love like a wild animal, love like a bull fight

or like a game of chess, love conquers all

[mybeingthere]

Junko Oki was born in Urawa City, Japan in 1963 and is currently based in Kamakura.

Oki embarked on her career as a fiber artist after inheriting a large quantity of thread from her late mother. She started out embroidering on clothes and bags, but before long moved to an abstract, textural style of freehand sewing on both sides of the fabric, rendering the stitching itself into works of art with sculptural dimensions. Often, her creations take on the appearance of living things or their by-products. They stretch, shrivel, burst, bleed, pucker, rot, spore, fester, scab, and molt. Possible interpretations of their forms include fruit peels, cobwebs, tree rings, mold, chrysalises, and wounds. Their colors are generally found in nature, ranging from deep reds and vibrant yellows to off-whites and subdued browns and greens. Oki works in cotton, silk, wool, linen, and hemp, while also sometimes incorporating materials and objects like paper, beeswax, pewter, bandages, and wooden frames. She will occasionally use an earlier work as the canvas for a new one, prompting reconsideration of what it means for a piece to truly be complete. She has referred to her own work as "my continually transforming skin."

https://artscape.jp/artscape/eng/focus/2212_01.html© Junko Oki. 

Courtesy KOSAKU KANECHIKA. Photo: Keizo Kioku.

[wreywrites]

Tiger Shark

Part 5: The Net

Chapter 31

When I wake up, Katniss is staring at us. And either she’s a better actor than I think she is, or she really does love Peeta.

As soon as she notices I’m awake, she looks away, back to the sunrise.

Finnick is still sleeping, so I stay with him. It’s not like I have anything else pressing to do. I watch the sun creep up over the trees. The arm I’m using as a pillow is tingling and my skin is starting to itch again. With a sigh, I wiggle away from Finnick and move to where Haymitch is sitting against a tree.

Before I can ask for more of the goo, he says, “It’s your job to wake him up now, you know that, right?”

I nod. “I should’ve been doing it all along.”

“Couldn’t really be helped.” Haymitch shrugs. Then he gestures to his feet, where he’s been scratching one of them against the other leg. The greenish skin on his leg has peeled off, leaving a new layer that looks very pink and very tender. “Better than the scabs,” he says with a slight grin that might also be a grimace. “Scrape on it with some sand.”

I pick up a palmful of sand and rub it against my calf. The scales slough off. My lip curls despite my best efforts to keep it still. “That’s gross.”

Haymitch snorts. “Little bit, yeah.”

I scrub off my legs and arms, then do the best I can on my face.

Alvan and Johanna are returning with a basket full of water when another parachute floats down.

Haymitch gets up with a groan. “Better wake up Pretty Boy.”

I stab my spear into the ground and use it to pull myself to my feet. “Watch that for me then.”

Cecelia is already headed toward Finnick.

Catching up to her, I take her wrist. “Wait. I’ll do it. He’s a little-”

“I’ve noticed,” she says, stepping back and gesturing me forward. “I thought he was going to bite me yesterday.”

Chuckling, I kneel in front of Finnick, planting one knee on the trident and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Finnick. Finnick, wake up.”

He jerks awake, trying for the trident but I lean down on it even more.

“It’s me. It’s alright.”

His nostrils flare as he stares at me, then he blinks and relaxes.

I smile. “Just like that. Now come on, I think breakfast is here.”

Breakfast is indeed here. Twenty-four more rolls from Three. They’re not bad, but I could go for some butter.

As we sit down to eat the rolls and the oysters Finnick and I hurriedly collected, Beetee says, “I think we’ll all agree our next job is to kill the other alliance.”

I agree, but also that’s just going to leave our alliance, and maybe another lone tribute or two, and what do we do then? Do I have to protect Katniss from these people, who are also protecting Katniss? I choose not to voice this question, because no one else seems terribly concerned, and I’m not supposed to know anyway.

Beetee goes on. “We could track them down, I suppose, but it’s dangerous, exhausting work.”

“Do you think they’ve figured out about the clock?” Katniss asks.

“If they haven’t, they’ll figure it out soon enough. Perhaps not as specifically as we have. But they must know that at least some of the zones are wired for attacks and that they’re reoccurring in a circular fashion. Also, the fact that our last fight was cut off by Gamemaker intervention will not have gone unnoticed by them. We know it was an attempt to disorient us, but they must be asking themselves why it was done, and this, too, may lead them to the realization that the arena’s a clock. So I think our best bet will be setting our own trap.” Beetee pauses to draw a quick sketch of the arena in the sand. “If you were One and Two and whoever else might be with them, knowing what you do now about the jungle, where would you feel safest?” He asks the question like a teacher, like Coral.

Stay with me.

I focus harder on Beetee. I can’t miss the plan. I can’t miss anything.

“Here,” Alvan says.

“On the beach,” Cecelia says, though a slight frown is growing on her face.

Beetee nods and directs his next question at Cecelia, as though he knows what she’s thinking. “So why aren’t they on the beach?”

“Because we’re here.” Cecelia’s voice is soft. Her gaze drifts to the trees, fear flickering in her eyes. So far she has missed the worst of everything. The mist, the monkeys, the jabberjays. But she has seen what those things have done to the rest of us.

“Exactly,” Beetee says. “We’re here, claiming the beach. And there are eight of us. We have them substantially outnumbered. Now where would you go?”

There is a pause as we all mull this over. Not the jungle, that’s for sure.

Katniss answers this question. “I’d hide just at the edge of the jungle. So I could escape if an attack came. And so I could spy on us.”

“Also to eat,” Finnick says. “The jungle’s full of strange creatures and plants. But by watching us, I’d know the seafood’s safe.”

Beetee smiles. Just like a proud teacher. Just like Coral.

Stay with me.

“Yes, good. You do see. Now here’s what I propose: a twelve o’clock strike. What happens exactly at noon and at midnight?”

“The lightning,” Haymitch says.

“Yes. So what I’m suggesting is that after the bolt hits at noon, but before it hits at midnight, we run my wire from that tree all the way down into the saltwater, which is, of course, highly conductive. When the bolt strikes, the electricity will travel down the wire and into not only the water but also the surrounding beach, which will still be damp from the ten o’clock wave. Anyone in contact with those surfaces at that moment will be electrocuted.”

There’s a long pause while we all digest this. Having been around water my whole life, I know that part of the plan will work, but the wire-?

“That wire be able to conduct that much power? Looks a mite delicate,” Alvan says.

“Oh, it is. It will burn up the minute the current passes through it. In fact, it will act something like a fuse. Except the electricity will travel along it.”

Johanna frowns. “How do you know?”

“Because I invented it.” Beetee sounds a little surprised. “It’s not actually wire in the usual sense. Nor is the lightning natural lightning nor the tree a real tree. You know trees better than any of us, Johanna. It would be destroyed by now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t worry about the wire—it will do just what I say.”

Once again, no one has asked the question that now feels most important to me. “And… where will we be when this happens?” I ask.

“Far enough up in the jungle to be safe,” Beetee answers.

Katniss’s eyebrows furrow. “The Careers will be safe, too, then, unless they’re in the vicinity of the water.”

“That’s right,” says Beetee.

“It’ll cook the oysters,” I say dryly and before I can quite stop myself.

Beetee chuckles. “More than cook. We will most likely be eliminating that as a food source for good. But you found other edible things in the jungle, right, Katniss?”

“Yes. Rats. And those nuts Alvan remembered from the last jungle Games. And we have sponsors.” She gestures at the parachute and the empty basket.

Beetee nods. “Well, then. I don’t see that as a problem. But as we are allies and this will require all of our efforts, the decision of whether or not to attempt it is up to you seven.”

Mostly I don’t want to lose the shellfish. I’m not ethically concerned by using the water against the others because that’s how I won last time. And no one else has any questions that sound any less trivial than mine that Beetee can’t immediately but gently and patiently refute.

Finally, Haymitch shrugs. “I’m game.”

Katniss nods. “Why not? If it fails, there’s no harm done. If it works, there’s a decent chance we’ll kill them. And even if we don’t and just kill the seafood, then they lose it as a food source, too.”

“I say we try it,” Cecelia says.

Alvan says nothing. He is looking at Finnick, who is looking at Johanna, who is thinking.

“All right,” Johanna says. “It’s better than hunting them down in the jungle, anyway. And I doubt they’ll figure out our plan, since we can barely understand it ourselves.”

That’s good enough for me. I raise an eyebrow at Finnick.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

Finally, Alvan nods.

“Excellent.” Beetee smiles. “I would like to further examine the tree before it comes time to enact our plan.”

So those of us who were victims of the fog finish scrubbing ourselves and each other off with sand. Then, at Katniss’s suggestion, we smear on another layer of the green goo. It seems like a good idea to me, both to protect our soft new skin from the sun and to serve as camouflage as we enter the trees again to go to the lightning tree.

We have an uneventful hike to the lightning tree, and an uneventful examination of the lightning tree. Katniss goes hunting while Alvan and Cecelia refill our water basket, and Johanna, Finnick, and I stand guard while Beetee examines the tree and talks quietly with Haymitch.

The roar of the ten o’clock wave comes and goes, then a million hissing clicks rise from the eleven o’clock section next to us. They make my skin crawl.

“Are those… bugs?” I ask, not moving my eyes from that direction.

“It’s not mechanical,” Beetee says.

“It’s bugs.” Alvan looks disgusted and a little afraid. “Sounds just like them hoppers we get some years. ’Cept bigger. Probably eat meat.”

After that pleasant discussion, Beetee takes a few more measurements and says he is satisfied. We pack up the tree rats Katniss shot and cleaned and the rest of our belongings, and head to the blood rain section. We go to the big tree there, eat our picnic lunch of roasted rat, and wait until the clicking from eleven starts to die down. Then Beetee has Katniss climb the tree and watch the lightning.

After several minutes, she climbs back down and reports to Beetee. He nods, and then we go back to the ten o’clock beach and start fishing.

That evening we get yet another parachute with twenty-four rolls from Three, and a little pot of some spicy red sauce that we dip the fish in.

Finnick sits down next to me, tapping his fingers in the sand. Ready?

For what?

Anything.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

At about nine, we throw what’s left of the food into the water and hike back up to the lightning tree. Beetee unspools yards of the wire and sets it to the side. Then he, Haymitch, and Finnick stand around the tree and pass the spool around and around and around, winding the wire around the trunk until Beetee is satisfied.

“Now,” he says, putting the spool down. “We’ll-” He is interrupted by the roar of the wave. He frowns, then continues, “We’ll need to split up. Katniss, Johanna, and Cecelia will take the coil through the jungle to the beach, unwinding as they go. When you reach the water, throw the spool and whatever is left of the wire into the water and make sure it sinks. Then run for the jungle. If you start now, you’ll make it.”

“What about the rest of you?” Johanna looks and sounds genuinely concerned, and Katniss looks surprised by this.

“I’ll stay here to finalize preparations, and I need the others to stand guard. We’ll all meet up at the tree in the one-to-two-o’clock sector. If it looks like we’re running out of time, we’ll meet up in the next one. But no one goes back on the beach until I can assess the damage.”

After nods all around, Johanna picks up the spool and heads out, Katniss and Cecelia following her with their weapons ready. Alvan, Finnick, and I stand around the tree, watching in different directions, while Beetee continues to work on the side closest to the force field, still talking with Haymitch.

This goes on for quite a while, until all is quiet after the wave, and then as the clicking from the bugs rises to fill the air. I’m not sure if I prefer having my back to the clicks, or if I would rather be watching that side of the tree. Neither sound fun.

“Hate them bugs,” I hear Alvan say from his post facing the eleven o’clock sector. “Damn creepy.”

Haymitch walks around to my side. “See anything?”

I shake my head.

“With any luck-”

“Haymitch,” Finnick says quietly.

I glance to where he stands, facing into the jungle toward the water. For a second I don’t see what has him worried, then the wire moves. It goes tight, wiggles a little, goes tight again, then with a metallic springing sound, it goes limp.

Haymitch swears. At that exact moment, someone else screams from the jungle.

What happens next makes no sense.

Beetee yells, “Go get them!”

Finnick takes exactly half a step forward, hesitates, and starts to look back, only for Alvan to shout, “Go! I got things here!”

Finnick has only been gone for about thirty seconds when there is a horrible sizzling crack from the force field side of the tree, a scream from far into the trees on my side, and a cannon.

I spin around to the source of the sizzling sound and see Beetee in a heap on the ground, a knife near him, the hilt wrapped in wire connected to the tree. I have no time to process this before Alvan yells and something slams into me from behind.

It takes only a second for me to regain my balance and my bearings, but that is more than enough. One arm is twisted around my back, the shoulder a hair away from dislocation. Now I’m either going to die, right here, failing to protect Beetee and so failing to protect Katniss, beaten to a pulp by whoever jumped me, or I’m going to die, right here, getting fried by the very plan designed to protect Katniss. Both are less than ideal.

“Looks like you didn’t need my help getting out of your costume this year either.”

“Just break my shoulder and get it over with,” I grunt back, smarter than to squirm. If Gloss is busy killing me, he’s one less person everyone else has to worry about. There is more shouting from the trees, and another cannon.

But instead of breaking my shoulder, Gloss grabs the fingers holding my spear.

It almost sounds like he’s smiling when he whispers, “Make it look good.” Then he snaps two of my fingers with no effort.

I scream in very real pain, but I know what he wants as the spear falls from my hand and he kicks it away. His grip on my other arm loosens just enough to let me twist from his hold and turn to confirm what I suspect. Gloss is weaponless. I charge him.

It’s harder to make a fake wrestling match to the death look good than almost anything else I have ever tried. I very much hope someone other than me has a plan, because at this rate, Gloss and I will still be right here when the lightning strikes. And then we’ll both get fried.

Over the roaring in my ears, there is another scream and another cannon. Then the bonging of the clock begins and Haymitch is shouting something. My wrestling match with Gloss has pivoted enough for me to see Alvan, only a few yards away, fighting Brutus, sword flashing with deadly efficiency. Alvan stabs up, under Brutus’s ribs.

Just like Merritt did to Jilly.

Just like Cally.

The cannon booms before Brutus hits the ground.

Gloss has me in a headlock, slowly choking me out, but I’m terrified it’s not slow enough.

There is a blinding flash as lightning strikes the tree, and all around me the thunder of the buffalo.

~~~                               ~~~                               ~~~

I wake up in a room with four beds. My arm is bandaged like it’s been bleeding heavily and my broken fingers are in splints. Across the room, Beetee is unconscious and hooked up to what my addled brain interprets as about ninety machines. I lift my head a little and see Katniss asleep on the other bed on my side of the room. There are voices on the other side of the door.

I get up slowly, listening for who they are. Haymitch is talking to someone I recognize, but it takes a few sentences for me to realize it’s Plutarch Heavensbee. That doesn’t make sense, he’s the Head Gamemaker. Did the Capitol snatch us? That would make sense, I was so close to unconscious I couldn’t have gotten too far, but Haymitch?

There’s another voice, confused but sincere, low, worried.

And then Alvan’s quiet voice, but I hear every word.

“We lost too many, Haymitch. It ain’t gonna work… not without ’em.”

My head is spinning. The ground shakes in the beginnings of an earthquake. I haul in a breath and open the door.

Alvan, Haymitch, Plutarch Heavensbee, and Gloss—Gloss?—are sitting around a table, looking generally terrible. All of us that were in the arena have the same bandage on our left arm. Why? What is going on?

Then it hits me. Our trackers. Someone has removed them. Plutarch Heavensbee was in on this whole thing. Everyone was in on it except Katniss, and me, but I had Finnick to follow… Finnick?

“Haymitch…”

“Annie,” he says slowly.

“Where is everyone?” I can’t ask what I want, what I need to know.

“We’re on our way to District Thirteen-” Plutarch Heavensbee starts, sounding placating.

Alvan cuts him off, the beginnings of a snarl in his voice. “Don’t lie to her.” He looks at me. “You, me, these two, Beetee, ’n’ Katniss…” He pauses. He knows.

“Where’s Finnick?”

The floor shakes and Merritt whistles and Zalea looks up at the moon.

“Alvan, where’s Finnick?”

My fingernails dig into my palms, Elsie drops to the ground, Stitch collapses.

“Still in the Capitol.”

The buffalo thunder all around me. Mako’s head hits the ground but when it rolls to face me, it isn’t him, it’s Finnick.

****

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[untitled-no346-blog]

Last night I brought both my hands together and I prayed for rain. Then I danced with my shadow ‘till I ran out of breath. I washed my face with soap and cold water, then I carved it out in the shape of a smile.

Last week I climbed up the hill behind my house. I dug a hole with my bare hands. And there I buried my tears.

Last month I ripped out a piece of the sky with my fireworks. I painted a piece of the air with my smoke. I took back the night with three cups of tea. I filled my dreadful silence with laughter.

Last fall, I claimed a piece of her skin with my teeth. I marked the edge of her face with my tongue. I lined the bottom of her shirt with my fingers. I wiped her lips with my own.

Last year I had a bottle for ever day. I burned my hands on a bonfire. I found myself craving the pain.

I saw the scabs on my hands this morning. They are not healed just yet. I imagined myself as a ghost. Transparent curtain of skin. Thin veil hanging over me. Where every scar would be a visible exit hole. A tattered rug. Stained and gone dry. With every inch of me, another remainder of a burn. A scab that used to be skin. A hole that used to be flesh. A rot that used to be fresh bubbling blood.

If I were still there, last year. I would use my pocket knife to peel my face off. Then I’d put both of my hands together, and I’d ask him for new skin.

But last night, I asked him for rain.

It’s raining now.

It’s raining through me.

[rancidexpression]

Brain Dump of my Consecutive Thoughts Today 8/03/2023

TW: SH, ED

Today in therapy my therapist told me that

“Being stuck in a crisis is familiar" to me.

I could feel myself turn red as soon as she said it, because I already knew what she was going to say. Most people read me well, and most of the time for worrying reasons. I hate that about myself but at the same time can feel joy simmer in the

small 

Soft

Patch of skin below my belly button.   That's hot…

She said every week for the past few months a new cow has entered the barnyard.  

My anorexia told me in that instant that the cow she was referring me to was myself. The air fell out of me and my ears turned to lava. Logic came in to save the day.

“What do you mean by that?”

“You come in with a new crisis every week”.

That is familiar. I kind of feel like a running joke with the events in my life sometimes. What a tragedy, poor XXXX. I secretly liked that feeling.

I can never just do something to do something. Especially with drugs. First I was drinking to get fucked up. I hate drinking now. But since I started smoking and consuming weed again my tolerance is so high that I keep chasing bigger highs and just always want the next best thing. Or I think that is what should happen. Why do I want to always feel so fucked up?

Last night I told --- that ever since I was a small child I have had this fascination with inflicting pain upon myself. I could name out all my examples.

I picked my skin so much it would scab over and over. I would pick the scab each time, and make it bleed more and more, till it scarred over. I would stick a small clump of toilet paper to the wounds to stop the bleeding. 

I have been biting my nails down to skin, tearing out my nails, going deeper and deeper with the hangnail I could rip off, pulling my entire pinky nail out with a nail clipper probably hundreds of times now. If I had no more nails to bite down, I would bite the skin off around my nails. I was fascinated by infections. If any of my wounds get infected, I would pick and prod at it to make it last longer. It would hurt more that way.

I pulled out my hair in chunks for quite some time. It started around the middle of middle school. I think because I have had so many scabs on my head that I would have picked them off, I went to the next level of pulling hair chunks out to make a wound.

I would rip my teeth out far too early. I pushed and pulled and yanked and forced so many of my baby teeth out. I would also pull out my friend's teeth. It was a lot rewarding if it was my own tooth (I would get the money, and also control of self). Is this pain self-inflicted because early on I enjoyed it or because I wanted to be the one to control my own hurt?

I pulled my eyelashes out quite a bit

If I ever had a blemish I would tear it apart and put every chemical and serum and toner and lotion on it that I could to get rid of it. I would make it 1000 times worse each time I poked into one. I loved it.

Cutting with nail clippers again, the corns off on my pinky toes, and the skin around my toes and fingers to peel off very fast and yelp OUCH!

I couldn't not mention cutting. I still think about it often but not in an ideation type of way. I would never do it again, it is too risky. Too many people would see it, especially this time of year. Or ever. I found a bunch of my razors the other day. It is there as a reminder- I want it to be my little secret.

I could go deeper and say this is a common pattern in much of my life- horrible and toxic relationships. Working myself to sickness. I hate the thought of not being everything for everyone.

My therapist asked why I hold so much shame.

“Where do you feel that in you?”

I could feel disgust, bubbling, and black, lurch inside me. I felt sick. Shame rose up to my throat like bile. My shame lived to be the salivation of my mouth before I vomited my embarrassment. Most of the time I would just swallow it and hoped for the acidity to go away. 

I hate what I am doing to XXXX and XXXXXX right now. I feel like the worst person in the world. I have muddled some things up quite badly. It is so hard to just give the reasoning being that it feels right with XXX. It is finally something good in that area of life and I feel like people should be happy that I am truly happy. Dichotomy of man is saying why should people be happy that I am truly happy while I am also actively hurting people who I deeply care about. I can't stop. There is no rational, truly, and I feel evil for that. I hate that I cannot cry. I hate that I cannot care. 

My Co-Star today says “Today, your emotions feel like a big roller coaster. You second-guess your decisions, repress your own valid needs, and dwell on the worst-case scenario”

Boooooooooooo! 

I am fucking a lot up right now and I dont know what to do. Today my therapist said I run away from things as soon as they get hard or complicated. Or because I get bored. 

I tend to be so worried about how other people perceive me that I second guess every decision I ever make- if I even allow myself to make one. I thrive off of external validation. 

What should I do?

What would be the thing people like me most for saying or doing?

I feel like I am a spectacle. I need to be able to control how people see me in order to do anything ever. I will make myself digestible for you, and eat me over and over. I could become your favorite meal. Consume me!

It seems like the only thing I can control at this point. 

I feel like I could tell XXX anything and I would never be judged. Yesterday they said they loved how shameless I was.

I know it is on a surface level, but it felt nice to hear. I told my therapist this.

“Does XXX know you purge”

Bitch.

My legs squirm into a new position and I can feel my skin get hot when she says this. 

“No”

“But why not, I mean, you like being seen as shameless? Why not let that out?”

“I feel nothing but shame towards myself for most everything I do.”

I am embarrassed by myself. I hate being alone. I feel like an impostor when anyone tells me anything even remotely positive about myself. You know, the normal thoughts of anyone in their 20's in therapy- I can imagine. This feels like something everyone talks about ever, being young and dumb. I hate how careless I am with anything I do.

Lost my card for 3 hours and decided I needed to get a new one that day.

I have ripped two of my house keys in half for being impatient and forcing them to come out of the locks.

I will rip cords out of sockets if they're even slightly stuck

I hurt many people I do not want to hurt. It seems to be common in my relationship trail. I never see things through with people. I get bored. I leave fast and I leave early. Or move onto the next best thing. Does that make me an addict of the chase or a failed hopeless romantic?

[teneguine]

Surprise flickers across his face when he spots his retainer lounging in the med tent. Leo schools his features back to normal--he knows of Odin's recent struggles with magic.

"Good day, Odin," Leo says once he's in earshot. There's far more sympathy in his tone than he'd usually let seep through; Odin looks like he's emerged from a life or death fight, not a mock war game.

Bandages wrap around a likely nasty slash across his chest, while salve glistens on the exposed skin of his burned shoulder. Odin has always been one to go all out in every aspect, accruing injuries included.

"I see you've been in quite the skirmishes. Have you had time to compose a heroic tale about them?" Far gone are the days of Leo begrudgingly indulging his retainer's theatrics. He now sees them for what they truly are, and more than that, Leo views Odin as his friend.

Hardly, he wants to say, and there's nothing heroic about losing.

But he holds his tongue. Leo means well; he doesn't deserve that kind of lip.

Instead he sighs, hanging his head low in what can only be compared to a child bemoaning their lost toy. If that sounds pathetic, that's because he feels pathetic: both for falling at the hands of another mage, and creating worry for his lord.

Shouldn't he still be out there, flying his country's flag high above his head as eldritch flames flicker from his fingers?

But seeing as how even the simple motion of turning to face the other blonde causes discomfort, nothing of the sort will happen for a good stretch of time. Odin shoots him a wry smile, using his encouragement to stoke his heroic fire. Perhaps a bit of improv can turn his mood around.

"Heh... I suppose I could whip up something right now..." and he stops a second, fingers struggling to reach his chin. When they connect, and his intrepid mind enters the under the twilit sky of his own thoughts so that it may spin starlight into stories, he slowly begins to forget his ailments. Ache peels from him like a scab, and stress too. When again he speaks, he molts from his depressing shell; Leo's words awaken the hero slumbering in his soul.

"First, I was ambushed by an unholy insurgency... His sword cleaved the air like a wedge through a summer melon," he pauses to draw a line with his finger, lacking the energy for a full sword-swipe, "and gave me the great scar I wear upon my chest. But fear not! for with the might of Ephraim's lance by my side, my supreme spellcraft struck him down!"

"...Hm.. then, a... Shadow? (No no, wait..) A specter appeared on the horizon, his hands glistening with the light of heaven. CRACK! Once he fired holy flame, and BOOM! I fought back! Though my struggle was valiant, lightning struck the same spot twice," again a pause, this time to show off the wicked mark on his shoulder, "and in the end, my world went stygian black... But I am not finished yet! This is only the first act of my journey; revenge is at hand!"

"And... That just about wraps it up, actually. How was your experience with the Calamitous War in Viridescent Fields?"